The Great Troll War

The Sorcerer’s Conclave

I took the sword Exhorbitus from my back-scabbard and laid it on the table in front of me, I guess to demonstrate the gravity of the meeting. Most enchanted swords had tastelessly overdecorated hilts and highly engraved blades, but Exhorbitus was more simple: perfectly proportioned and with a burnished dull finish and a ruby in the pommel, it was the weapon of a true warrior, to whom flashy presentation means nothing.

‘My name is Jennifer Strange,’ I said, ‘and as Court Mystician to the Kingdom of Snodd and director of the House of Enchantment of Kazam, I think I am best placed to chair this Conclave, although I will hear arguments on why this should not be the case.’

‘Shouldn’t the Ruler of Cornwall be in charge?’ asked Princess Jocaminca, who was clearly still a little chippy over losing her authority. ‘Agreed, it’s one twentieth the size it was, but while it remains unconquered land, the rightful ruler must still have authority.’

‘It’s a good point,’ I said. ‘Tiger, weren’t you looking into this?’

Tiger stood up.

‘All of Cornwall was bought by the Queen of Midlandia as a “second Kingdom” for her to enjoy ruling at the weekends. The Cornish Grand Vizier, charged to look after the Kingdom during the week, was also treating it more like a weekend thing, as was her deputy, the Attorney General, the Chief Judge and even the Minister for Pasties. They just governed as a kind of hobby. In fact, I can’t find a single government job that wasn’t done by someone who lives elsewhere.’

This was, sadly, all too true. After several centuries of weekend rule the indigenous Cornish now worked in a menial capacity beneath their weekending overlords. House prices were so high that the Cornish had to live in abandoned cars in fields until they were priced out of them, too, when ‘living in an abandoned car in a field for the weekend’ became the must-have holiday for Londoners with more money than sense.

‘Is this true?’ asked the Princess.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Tiger.

‘My first decree as Ruler of all the Kingdoms,’ she said, ‘will be to seize all land and property in Cornwall owned by anyone who doesn’t live here, and have it redistributed to the Cornish. Make a note, Tiger.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Okay,’ I said, ‘that’s Cornwall sorted. Now: any other objections to me leading this Conclave?’

There were none, so I carried on:

‘Before our discussions begin I would like to observe a minute’s silence for those who did not survive the invasion and gave their lives in the struggle for freedom.’

We bowed our heads in the silence, and once the minute was up, I continued:

‘As you all know the Trolls invaded two weeks ago led by Emperor Urdgg the Needlessly Violent. The invasion was well planned in that their strategy was very, very simple: advance through the UnUnited Kingdoms, killing and eating17 anyone who tried to resist.’

It was a good strategy. The news spread quickly and the advancing Trolls found that their propensity for extreme violence and an imaginative flair for human-based recipes was enough to have humans falling over themselves to surrender, and the kings and queens, emperors, dictators, viziers and politburos all eagerly traded their and their family’s lives for the keys to their nation. There was a murmuring at this and I looked around the room. This was meant to be a Sorcerer’s Conclave but there were precious few wizards present. There had been talk of assistance from mainland Europe – they were quite enthusiastic to begin with, but then suddenly remembered they had ‘a long-standing engagement of a pressing nature’ and might have to ‘sit this one out’.

‘Okay,’ I said, ‘before we even begin to discuss tactics, we need to know how we stand as a potential army of resistance. Monty? Tell us what you’ve discovered.’

Monty Vanguard stood up. His once jet-black hair was now snowy white, yet combed in a manner that conveyed the appearance of a bank manager, a look reinforced by the circular horn-rimmed glasses, sensible suit, tidily knotted tie and ever-ready briefcase.

‘As you might have heard,’ he said, ‘a powerful HENRY is currently active, nullifying all spells and rendering sorcerers powerless.’

‘The more we try and damage it, the more powerful it becomes,’ said Once Magnificent Boo, who was sitting on the other side of the Princess. ‘We’ll need to take it out by physical force.’

‘Where is it based?’ I asked.

‘On Dartmoor,’ said Monty. ‘Colin took some aerial pictures. The HENRY is on the site of the TV mast, just near the prison, and surrounded by a forested enchantment – cut a bramble and two instantly grow in its place. If we want to destroy it we’ll need to figure out some sort of countermeasure.’

‘Okay,’ I said, ‘what else?’

Monty consulted his clipboard.

‘Wizard Moobin was busy with the Trench and button telepathy call, so he had Lady Mawgon and Full Price send out the requests for “Terrible Warriors” on the Low Telepathic Waveband to head to Cornwall along with marksmen and women, and anyone expert in fencing. All told, we have an army of just under two thousand.’

‘That’s good,’ I said, taking a deep breath. When we failed to negotiate a deal with the Trolls then force would be inevitable.

Fight – or be eaten.

‘Why didn’t Full Price and Mawgon put out a call for artillery and heavy armoured vehicles?’ asked Once Magnificent Boo.

‘Cannons and tanks require heavy transportation and we didn’t have the time,’ said Lady Mawgon. ‘Rifles are of questionable use as bullets simply make Trolls annoyed – but swords and rapiers are much feared, mostly because the scars can upset their intricate tattoos, of which they are hugely proud.’

‘Warriors are resourceful fighters,’ said Monty. ‘They’ll have a plan up their sleeves.’

‘I agree,’ I said. Since the UnUnited Kingdoms were so often at war, warrior was often a second profession on a part-time basis – when dentistry or carpet-fitting wasn’t bringing in enough cash. ‘Where are their representatives?’

Monty pointed towards where a woman and two men were seated between Tiger and the Mysterious X, who was cosily sealed inside his Kilner jar, his particles sparkling like glow-worms. The representatives gave me a cheery wave while I consulted the register of Conclave attendees, which also listed the number of people they represented.

‘So,’ I said, addressing the Master Fencer, ‘five hundred fencers and swordsmen and women, eh? That’s impressive and, let me tell you, most welcome – at least that gives us something to attack them with.’

‘Ah,’ said the Master Fencer uneasily, ‘I think there might have been a mix-up somewhere. We don’t fence with rapiers and swords, we fence with fenceposts and wire. Lots of us will do hedge-laying as well. There are a few bricklayers too, if you’d prefer a wall. We’re more into keeping cattle and sheep in,’ she added, ‘than keeping Trolls out.’

‘Those five hundred fencers,’ I said, trying to find a positive angle on this, ‘are any of them handy with a sword?’

‘They might be,’ said the Master Fencer, ‘but I know for sure they’re handy with a billhook when it comes to pleaching.18 I could always ask around, if you want.’

I looked at Full Price, who, along with the Lady Mawgon, had sent out the telepathic message. That was the trouble with magic. It often worked literally, and mistakes – or a misspelling – were common. If you were casting an enchantment, there was rarely any wiggle room for mistakes, and secondary spellings were quite common; even the simple incantation that runs temporary traffic lights could accidentally result in a shower of frogs.

‘I’ve never done a low-alpha telepathic hailing,’ said Full Price apologetically. ‘We’re lucky to have got anyone at all.’

‘No blame is attributed,’ I told him, ‘but it’s a good job we still have the marksmen. I know bullets just tend to bounce off the Troll’s leathery hide, but they might be useful for delaying or distracting them.’

The keen-eyed marksman stood up.

‘I represent the three hundred marksmen and women,’ he said, ‘and we too think there might have been an error in communication. We’re actually people who paint white lines on turf for sporting events, although we’ll also put yellow lines on roads to discourage irresponsible parking.’

‘I’m not sure a double yellow line is going to keep any Trolls out,’ I said. ‘Why do you have “keen-eyed” in your title?’

‘Most people use a string to help them keep the white lines straight,’ he said. ‘But we do it by eye alone.’

‘Very useful.’

‘It certainly saves a lot of time. I’m sorry we’re not what you thought we’d be, but on the plus side we have given the local football and rugby grounds a bit of a freshen-up, and the parking regulations on the streets of Penzance have never been more unambiguous.’

‘This is beginning to reek not of error but of sabotage,’ grumbled Once Magnificent Boo. ‘Somebody not so much jammed the magic, as subverted it.’

This was indeed possible – especially with telepathically transmitted ideas. Full Price, who had up until that moment looked downhearted given that he and Mawgon were mostly to blame for the misspelling, suddenly perked up.

‘Okay,’ I said, ‘but at least we have a thousand terrible warriors. They’ll be taking a bigger share of the fight, and if they are as terrible as their name suggests, they’ll be more than useful. They’ll be indispensable.’

‘Oh dear oh dear oh dear,’ came the voice of the third representative, who was wringing his hands in a desperate manner, ‘this is all looking very frightening – we’re all dead for sure. And what’s more, I think I left the gas cooker on when I came out this morning, I have a rash on my foot that might turn out to be fatal and the gearbox in my car is making a funny noise.’

I looked at Monty Vanguard, who looked back with a resigned half-grimace. I turned back to the so-called warrior.

‘You warriors are worriers, aren’t you?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ said the terrible worrier, ‘I don’t think there is a single one of us who is expecting anything other than complete defeat under the Trolls – and is not fretting horribly about it. Will we be expected to pay for our rooms? I’ve not much money and I may have to go and live in an abandoned car somewhere. Am I being boring? I’ve had twenty years of therapy to make me less tedious. It was thirty pounds an hour. Do you think that was too much? I do. Unless you don’t agree – and then I’ll be conflicted.’

And he put his head in his hands and issued a long and melancholic sigh.

‘It’s fine,’ I said, ‘you’re not boring and hotel management and staff are working for free while we figure out a way to beat the Trolls.’

‘Oh,’ said the terrible worrier, ‘that’s good – except for the Trolls. Do I look good enough to eat? You can be honest with me.’

‘It’s really looking like mischief now,’ said Once Magnificent Boo.

‘I’m thinking you’re right,’ I said. ‘Do we have anyone here who is militarily trained?’

Monty consulted his clipboard.

‘The Cornish army is absent as they only did it for fun at the weekends,’ he said, ‘but we do have about forty people who have some military training. Haberdashers mostly – and after having a rummage we found eighteen swords, four firearms, three spears, six dozen pointy sticks, nine daggers and a trebuchet.’

‘A trebuchet?’ I said, as this was at least a viable weapon – a medieval siege engine designed to hurl rocks at castles. Although superseded by artillery and landships they were very ‘in’ at the moment owing to a recent fad for ‘retro warfare’.

‘Not a very large one,’ said Monty, looking at his clipboard again. ‘In fact, only a model.’

‘We could bring it very close to the Trolls and hope that they don’t fully understand the laws of perspective and mistake it for a full-sized one,’ suggested the Guild of Fencer’s representative.

‘That’s kind of a long shot,’ I said.

‘Or rather,’ put in Colin with a snigger, ‘it won’t be much of a long shot.’

There was silence.

‘Long shot?’ he said. ‘Trebuchet?’

No one laughed, and Colin looked crestfallen.

‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘I think I only want to hear what we do have from now on. Assets we can exploit to bring our battle to the Trolls.’

Before anyone could say anything, the Remarkable Kevin Zip suddenly stood up.

‘Something’s going to happen,’ he said in a quiet voice.

‘What?’ I said.

‘I said: “Something’s going to happen”.’

‘Yes, I know what you said,’ I replied, used to Kevin’s ways by now. ‘I was just wondering what important thing will happen?’

Kevin Zip looked at us all, and we all stared back. When a pre-cog with a proven track record says something important is about to happen, you take note, although uncertainties over the precise time, nature and location of the event often make the prediction either useless or irrelevant – or it comes too late to do any good at all.

‘The tea lady will arrive,’ he said slowly, ‘and she’ll be short on Hobnobs and will instead offer us digestives.’

‘That’s the important thing that’s going to happen?’ said Colin. ‘Like … big wow.’

‘Two weeks ago I could see a month into the future,’ said Kevin Zip, ‘but when the HENRY fired up my Predict Event Horizon reduced to a maximum of eighteen minutes. This morning it had diminished to only twelve. If it carries on reducing at this rate I’ll only be able to predict things after they happen. I think there’s a word for it.’

‘Memory?’ said Tiger.

‘That’s the one. It’s all a little annoying. But,’ he added, scribbling on a piece of paper, ‘immediate things I can often see with great accuracy.’

‘Is that useful?’ asked Colin, and Kevin showed him the piece of paper with ‘it could be, not sure’ written on it.

I took a deep breath and looked at Tiger, who shrugged. Usually a conclave is a well-ordered meeting offering a clear idea of where we are going with many sober, well-thought out and considered suggestions about the right course of action. With the Trolls quite literally an hour from this very spot – more if they chose to dawdle and admire the view – we needed to dispense with protocol and start dealing with practicalities.

‘I’m going to throw the meeting open,’ I said. ‘If anyone has any good ideas on how to vanquish the Trolls, I want to hear all about it right now.’

‘How about if we throw stones at them?’ said a young man at the far end of the table. ‘Just pelt them endlessly.’

‘And you are?’

‘Grover Ruckstell,’ he said, ‘representing the Guild of Haberdashers.’

‘And what would throwing rocks achieve?’ I asked, ‘Since it would probably take a stone too big to lift and thrown at a speed impossible to accomplish to have any sort of effect.’

‘It would make us feel better,’ said Grover with a shrug.

‘I think some sort of a stunt would be a good idea,’ said Jimmy Nuttjob, noted daredevil and stunt performer. He had been wowing the audiences up and down the UnUnited Kingdoms for decades, and by royal decree had a bed reserved in every hospital, as most of his outlandish stunts went spectacularly wrong – such as the time he tried to fire himself from an air cannon through a brick wall, and set the cannon pressure a little too high and went through two walls, a parked car and embedded himself in a telephone box. Rumours persist that he has the image of a telephone dial permanently embossed on his left buttock.

‘Okay,’ I said, well used to Nuttjob’s unique brand of showmanship/death wish, ‘so what’s your plan?’

‘A skydive from thirty thousand feet trailing a huge banner reading Ugg dugh lurgh hurg,19’ he said excitedly. ‘That should make them see we’re not a species to be trifled with.’

‘A parachute drop doesn’t sound that risky,’ said Full Price, who was a huge fan of Jimmy Nuttjob but had also, in leaner times, enjoyed a bit of parachuting himself.

‘Whoever said anything about a parachute?’ asked Nuttjob with an excited gleam in his eye.

‘Teatime!’ announced the tea lady as she walked in. ‘I know you could all do with a cuppa but the Trolls have disrupted the biscuit supply chain, so it will be digestives only today.’

Zip’s skill as a pre-cog was impressive but in this particular instance of little use – unless you were looking forward to Hobnobs, in which case it might have softened the disappointment.

‘Actually,’ said Kevin Zip, ‘the Hobnob issue wasn’t the important thing that was about to happen.’

‘Glad to hear it,’ said Colin.

‘I think it’s fairly clear,’ said Once Magnificent Boo, ‘that the Troll didn’t do all this on its own, and we must—’

She had stopped talking because the doors had been flung open in a dramatic fashion and a tall and impossibly handsome man walked in. He was dressed in expensive embroidered silk clothes, had a long flowing mane of blond hair, an impressive lantern jaw and large blue eyes. It was Sir Matt Grifflon, and while I and most people who knew him groaned audibly, Princess Jocaminca strategically swooned at his striking, manly presence while Princess Tabathini fanned herself with a copy of What Prince? magazine.